


Reality

by thejokeristhethief



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Frottage, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 18:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5880379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejokeristhethief/pseuds/thejokeristhethief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash suffers from the after effects of mission adrenaline. Unfortunately his outlet, Maine, is unconscious in the medbay. Connie gives him the boot, forcing him to take a shower and relax. After the alternate outlets she suggested calm him down somewhat, he returns to the medbay to stand vigil over his partner. The results are not what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reality

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a tumblr prompt from an anon:  
>  Maine, Wash after a mission gone bad?
> 
> Hopefully this tickles your fancy anon!
> 
> For anyone else interested in dropping me prompts, come see me on tumblr: thejokeristhethief.tumblr.com

It’s not the first time Maine’s had a hairy mission before. And it probably won’t be the last time. And it’s not like his injuries are even that bad. Wash has seen him looking far worse. The thing with being the team heavy is that one generally gets banged up. So he accepts the current circumstances, acknowledges the chances of it happening again. It’s all part of the job. And it’s not like he hasn’t had his fair share of post-mission medbay stays. It’d just be easier to deal with if his partner would hurry the fuck up and open his goddamn eyes.

Wash is well aware of how utterly impatient he’s being, shifting restlessly in the chair beside the bigger man’s hospital cot with pent up energy. The pointed look that Connie gives him when he fidgets for the millionth time in the duration of their five minute conversation expresses just how ridiculous he is right now. But it’s not his fault. He’s still pumped, post-mission adrenaline rushing through his veins, synapses firing more rapidly than normal, nerves thrumming, blood singing with an unrecognized need. It may as well have been his first assignment with the way that the post mission high is hitting him right now. It doesn’t matter that he’s been through this feeling over a dozen times, it never dulls, and it never fails to take him by surprise.

He’s not the only one that goes through these highs, either. He’s walked in on York trembling in the locker room, armour half stripped, pupils blown wide, unable to focus long enough to finish undressing for a shower. And he’s seen the way South and Connie react after either of them have brushes with death. The hot, heavy, and frankly disgusting public make-out sessions that end up with Wash avoiding the common room couch for months until his brain has been purged of any flashes of vagina. Carolina trains for hours, wearing herself out and working off the restlessness by putting up new records in hand-to-hand targets and CQC weapon scenarios. Even Florida displays the effects occasionally. The only people Wash has ever not witnessed suffering from post-mission highs are North and Maine. And he suspects that the sniper suppresses his symptoms through stubborn patience and pure force of will. Having a sibling like South certainly helps when it comes to masking reactions, he supposes.

Maine, however, is another story altogether. His partner is unflappable for the most part, approaching missions with the same attitude used when seeking out a sandwich. Unfortunately, Maine also happens to be the way Wash normally deals with his mission after-glow. His calm, steady presence is grounding, as is the way that the giant man takes complete control of him. But in this state, his partner can’t provide him with any of that. Can’t talk him through it, hold him down, fuck him senseless. 

So yeah, Washington’s reasons for hoping Maine will wake up soon are a little selfish. But his skin is crawling with that too tight, too hot, not right feeling he gets before losing control. The tunnel vision, or hyper-focus, or whatever the fuck North insistently calls it when they occasionally discuss these things, settles in heavily, blurring everything in the periphery. His world reduces itself to Maine and the slow, heavy way his partner’s chest raises. If only focusing on the other man would force his eyes open. His brain goes into overdrive, parading a slew of ideas, ways to hasten the injured Freelancer back into consciousness. Briefly he even considers the likelihood that he could just take what he needs from Maine. But even if that was possible, he wouldn’t feel right doing it. Sighing, Wash shuffles closer to the bed, reaching over to shove the man’s shoulder.

A hand wraps around his wrist, small and soft but with a strong grip. His attention shifts to it sluggishly, eyes following the arm attached to it until that arm meets a shoulder, focus landing on the face above that shoulder. Connie meets his gaze steadily, despite the worry swimming in her eyes. “Hey. Hey Wash. I know you’re stuck in that weird adrenaline fed haze. But I need you to listen to me for a minute, OK?”

The words echo watery in his head, as if he’s hearing her from very far away, or with his head under water. The hand squeezes his wrist as she repeats her instructions again, voice becoming more commanding than before when he doesn’t react. The tight pressure grounds him, and her words snap sharply into focus. Shaking his head, he tries to rid himself of the thick fog. After a moment he nods at her and she continues, voice still commanding in a way that has him relaxing further instead of bristling like he would in normal circumstances. “OK you’re with me now. That’s good. Maine is going to be fine for a while without you. Go shower. Rid yourself of all that post-mission sweat. Do something to take the edge off. Get something to eat. Don’t come back until you’re thinking clearly.”

The way she says it, demanding and forceful, has him obeying without thinking. In this state, he’s not sure he could stop himself from doing so. Peeling himself away from Maine’s bedside is still difficult but without the command ringing through his head, settling over his nerves, calming his jitters slightly, he’d never have made it more than a few steps. Connie’s forceful suggestion holds him until he’s stripped down and under the hot spray of the shower before fading away, taking some of the haze with it. Relaxing into the heat and the steam of the shower, Wash feels the adrenaline seep from him. He still feels tense and itchy, like he doesn’t quite fit into his own skin, but it isn’t unbearable anymore.

Despite the way that the extended shower clears his head, Wash still follows Connie’s advice. He heads off to the mess, grabbing a sandwich, a bottle of juice, and an apple before heading back to the medbay. Ducking behind the privacy curtains, he drops into the chair he’ll be occupying again until Maine wakes up or he’s ordered to leave. The room is empty, the only movement being the steady rise and fall of the injured man’s chest. Even with the departure of his after mission adrenaline rush, he still feels impatient for Maine to wake up. The larger man is going to get a tongue lashing for making Wash worry this much, that’s for sure. 

Shifting in the chair, he attempts to find a comfortable position, despite the fact he knows there isn’t one. With a sigh he resigns himself to another uncomfortable night in the medbay. It doesn’t take him long to slip into a fitful sleep, despite the lack of cushioning and the hard plastic of the chair digging into his spine.

He wakes to Maine shoving his head off of its precarious perch on his hand. The sensation causes him to jerk backwards in shock, rocking the chair backward. Flailing, he attempts to keep his balance and stop the chair from toppling over. His partner snickers, catching one of his hands and pulling the chair firmly onto all four legs. Mirthful brown eyes meet his glare, before Maine tugs on his hand a second time, pulling him closer. 

“You’re an asshole. You know that, right?” Wash huffs, a pout threatening his lips. Maine tilts his head, shrugging in response. Sighing, he allows the larger man to tug him onto the bed. Clambering onto it, he straddles his partner, tracing the bruises on his neck with care. A slight shift in his position gains him a wince and a quiet grunt of pain. It causes him to freeze immediately, all the feelings of anger and concern flooding into his mind. Propping himself so that none of his weight rests on the man below him, he starts to remove himself from the bed. Of course the other man has different ideas, and when Maine’s hands grasp his waist and attempt to pull him back down, he curses and snaps. “Dammit, Maine. I’m gonna hurt you more at this rate. Let go.”

His words are greeted with a slight head tilt and a squeeze of hands tightening their grip. Maine uses his strength to guide Wash down until he’s straddling his hips. A groan falls unbidden from his lips when he feels the brush of the other man’s half-hard shaft. His partner rolls his hips up, holding him steady as their clothed lengths slide against each other. A pleased sound falls from Maine’s lips as he gives in, grinding down into the movement. The movements are slow and familiar, relaxing and stimulating at the same time. Wash can feel the last of the pent-up tension seeping from him as they rut together, the slow drag and press causing him to tremble as the last bit of numbness flees his system.

Reality crashes down, taking over from the numbness, filling his awareness. He almost lost this; almost lost Maine. The shaking increases as his partner thrusts up against him, thumbs tracing small circles over his hip bones. His eyes never leave Wash’s face, reading him carefully, searching for the smallest of hints to his thoughts. It isn’t until the tremors turn into sobs that he realizes exactly what is happening. This is the crash Maine usually helps him avoid; the feeling they chase away by rough sex and exhaustion. He’s emotional, the exhaustion from the mission coupling with the helplessness he feels over his partner’s injuries finally catching up and overtaking him. Leaning down, he captures Maine’s lips in a desperate kiss, tears streaming silently down his face, dripping onto the other man’s cheeks.

Maine’s hands slide up and down his ribs comfortingly as Wash rocks into him, treating him gently. The need in the kiss increases at the treatment before he gasps into his partner’s mouth, stilling in his lap as his orgasm takes him completely by surprise. Maine holds him closer, movements ceasing. 

“Fuck.” Wash sniffs, embarrassment coating his voice as he squeezes his eyes shut to avoid Maine’s gaze. Pausing, he takes a deep, steadying breath. “Fuck. I’m sorry Maine. I just… I could have lost you. Jesus, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying. Why am I crying?”

“Shh. Tired, worried. It’s OK.” Maine strokes his cheek, brushing a stray tear away before dragging him into a soft kiss. Wash indulges in it, prolonging the chaste press of lips by tracing the seam of his partner’s with his tongue. The other man allows him entrance, but keeps the kiss slow and soft. After a moment he pulls away, gazing down at Maine with mild confusion. Gentle isn’t something they do. Or feelings. This whole situation is fucked up. He uses Maine for stress relief. That’s their deal. Only now this doesn’t feel like stress relief. And OK, yeah. He’s allowed to be worried about losing his partner, his friend. But they aren’t lovers in this sense. Except maybe they are. His breath catches at that realization, pulse increasing. However, before he can go too far down that road, a finger connects with the skin between his eyebrows, a light pressure that captures his attention. Looking down, Wash connects with Maine’s worried brown eyes. The other man quirks an eyebrow at him. “OK? Thinking too hard. Breathe. You’re fine. I’m fine. We’re fine.”

“I just… Holy shit.” He breathes out carefully, a long exhalation of air. Maine’s thumb strokes across his cheek, a soothing motion. Wash searches the face below him for some indication of what is happening. What he finds takes his breath away again. His partner’s face is completely unguarded, emotions laid bare, adoration written in the soft smile and warm eyes. He’s compelled to dive down for a kiss, and then a second, and a third, peppering Maine’s lips with soft, chaste presses of lips. “Oh god Maine. I love you. I love you.”

He can feel the content hum his partner, his  _ lover , _ releases from where he suddenly finds himself, sprawled over Maine’s chest in a tight embrace. Wash receives a deep, gentle kiss that causes him to melt, body shaking yet again as he realizes the enormity of his feelings. There is no doubt about what he just admitted. When the other man releases him from the kiss with a soft nip to his lower lip, he’s almost worried that he may have fucked up in admitting that. But Maine never makes him wait for long before putting his worries to bed. “Love you too. Idiot.”


End file.
